


Cold

by SrebrnaFH



Series: Srebrna's Sherlock Oneshots [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alone, Sad, Sad Ending, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 09:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16385336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: Sherlock isn't feeling very well, but still, he forces his transport to cooperate.





	Cold

Ever since he came back, he’s been cold. Cold permeates his bones, chills the very marrow in them. Cold makes his muscles clench uncontrollably. Cold makes his joints creak and makes them useless.

He can barely grasp the neck of his violin now - fingers are stiff and hesitant. Any move may cause more pain. Any touch can send signals of near-torture from the very tips of his fingers to his spine, blazing lines of pain across the neural paths up to his brain.

He breathes in, out, in, slowly. He will conquer this. He will deal with it, he will keep this in check. There is no other option. This body  _will_  listen and  _will_  obey.

He brings the bow to the strings and slowly pulls it across, arm making an ungainly move, nothing like the proper rounded arch that is required to bring the right sound out of the wooden box. The sound is all wrong, all false, almost  _unclean_  in its incorrectness.

It makes him only colder. The sound saws into his brain, into his bones, into his muscles. It is like an audible drill, whirling nastily in the hollowed out, raw places in his body. It makes his stomach ache with how utterly and simply  _bad_  it is.

Nothing is warming him up. Nothing, nothing, nothing. The flat is empty, devoid of any heat, despite the fire high in the fireplace, the heaters on full blast, the thick curtains covering the windows.

He shivers and his hand makes an aborted gesture - almost throwing his violin into the fireplace in a fit of pique.

No.

He will not let it stay like this. He will conquer it, if it is the last thing he does.

The scars on his back ache with the cold, all the sprains and breaks he had sustained ache as if they had been broken open again and laid bare on the icy concrete of his last prison. He feels the frost slowly icing the blood in his veins, stopping its flow, starving the brain of oxygen.

How is he supposed to go on like this?

He brings the violin up to his shoulder again.

The last thing he is ever going to write, and then he is done. His final creation. His very last gift for John.

He takes a deep breath.

He plays the waltz.


End file.
